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Everything in his demeanor screams, ‘fuck off.’
Every story I’ve penned so far, I’ve also stamped with a level of integrity I haven’t wavered from. If I do this, if I manipulate this situation out of curiosity, I may not be able to sleep as heavily as I have thus far.
Mom always jokingly calls him her longest one-night stand. Dad calls her the one that will never get away.
I grew up in a whirlwind of notes, tuned by melody, shaped by lyrics. My parents’ obsession with music and their love for it was the seed that I stemmed from. There hasn’t been a day of my life where I haven’t been entangled in the purity of some sort of melody, either someone else’s or my own. Music is as necessary for me as the air I breathe.”
Hi, kettle, nice to meet you. I’m pot.”
Maybe he did lie to save face, or perhaps he’d already become so ill from what he’d witnessed that he wasn’t in the right frame of mind to step in because he was too busy trying to find reasons to continue his own life.
“The most I have to give to anyone is my music. That’s personal enough.” “But it discredits you as a human being.” “I don’t want to be human, not for them, because I’ll be crucified no matter what, and you can’t convince me otherwise. I want to—strike that—I have to keep a piece of myself for me and those close to me.” “But what if your music inspires people so much they can relate and want to know more about you?” “Then it’s the music they relate to, my feelings, my experiences, maybe my politics or beliefs at the time I was feeling them when I wrote it. I don’t want to be held to some
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“I wasn’t made for this, Natalie. Creating and playing may be the only thing that comes naturally to me—and might be construed as talent—but the fame aspect is not something I’ve ever wanted, and I was born into it. It makes me feel less than human.
“Well, big shit, so he’s pretty.” I cross my arms, “They make ’em just as pretty in Texas,” I spout to Joel, which has him belting out another loud laugh.
“File the questions away, would you?” He says, rummaging through his duffle. “This is me, being me.” He rolls his gaze up and puckers his lips sourly. “Well, that’s annoying.” “Kiss my ass,” I sass back. In a sudden move, he stands, grips my shoulders, and tilts my body before his gaze dips. “What the hell are you doing?” I ask, craning my neck over my shoulder. He playfully rakes his lower lip, his brows lifting. “Seeing if you have enough ass to kiss.”
“I don’t want to be responsible for the way people behave, think, or live, or the decisions they make. If anything, the message in my work begs them to think for themselves.”
“I don’t think you can live a genuine life being inspired by others—everyday lives anyway—but you can be inspired by their creations. There’s a big fucking difference. If some guy wants to propose because of a love song I wrote, great, that’s where it should end. I’m not saying famous people don’t have a responsibility, or if they’re reckless with it and do horrible things, they shouldn’t be called out. They should. But for those who just want to quietly contribute at this point, it’s next to impossible to keep their private lives out of it.
“I don’t think a lot of people realize they live around echoes of defining moments in their lives.”
“Everyone loves The Starry Night by Vincent van Gogh, but I wonder how many know…” “Know what?” “That’s the point. I don’t want to spoil it for anyone or change their perception of an artist or take away any merit of his art for any reason.” “How so?” “You really want to know?” “I have to now.” “All right. He painted The Starry Night because that’s what he saw during one of his most manic states while staring out of his asylum window.”
“The truth is, ordinary humans are capable of doing extraordinary things every single day without living extraordinary, extra lives.
It’s the art, the creativity that sets them apart, not what they fucking eat for breakfast or who they’re fucking. Let them have their eggs in peace.”
“But then I look at you and see you have a natural inclination to seek out what makes humans tick. Of how they came to be who they are, and I can’t fault you for that, no more than you can fault me for not wanting to be under your microscope. I don’t hate the press. I just hate the microscope and what it’s done to the people I love.”
“Fame is my biggest fear, Natalie.”
“I want you to remember this moment. Right here, right now, just you and me in a fucking SUV, taking a drive to nowhere.” He looks at me pointedly. “Promise me you’ll remember this.”
“Now I wonder how you’ll view The Starry Night when you see it again.” He pins me with his inquisitive gaze. “Will you see the masterpiece or the mental illness?”
“Sorry to disappoint, but my life is…highly structured, and while I wouldn’t change a lot about it most days, something happened recently that made my clear path…fuzzy.” I glance around. “Where are we anyway?” His lips lift in a triumphant smile. “Lost.” I return his grin. “I can’t say I hate it.” He traces the steering wheel with his fingers. “I have this theory that if you don’t have enough days like this, then you’re pretty much living out someone else’s expectations, which is my definition of prison.” I pause. “I know exactly what you mean by that.” He nods, gripping the wheel. “I thought
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“You just fucking fell out of the sky, didn’t you?”
Want to get lost again tomorrow?
For some reason, I want her to understand my logic, me.
Words have always been what light me on fire. The stories they create fuel me, and the more I tuned into each song, I realized the art of fusing a story, message, or layered emotions in fewer words to paint a picture is fascinating. Composing lyrics with the right notes is an art form widely recognized and celebrated by billions of people. Though aware of it, I’d spent most of my life idolizing the noteless side of composition.
“Ready?” he asks as he stands and tucks his wallet back in his jeans. Feeling seduced for a plethora of rapidly accumulating reasons, I simply nod.
Easton speaks up again. “Kurt’s one of many in the infamous 27 Club.” “27 Club?” “The age several prominent creatives died, many of them musicians, for some shitty reason or another. A lot of those reasons being drugs.” “I think I read about it somewhere. Who else is in the club?” “Shit, too damned many. Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, Brian Jones, Amy Winehouse.” He lifts his chin, “Some of them are in a few of the rooms here.”
“I study musical evolutions, mostly by listening to their music. I don’t pay attention to the useless details so many seem to obsess over.” “Yeah, well, as a human-interest writer,” I look back to the sweater, “I would love to know what was going on in his mind.” “Pain,” he surmises easily. “Kurt and Eddie both notoriously hated fame and media, so if nothing else, we have that in common.”
If what Easton said is true, and we live in echoes of defining moments, I want to remain in this one for as long as I possibly can.
“I think reading those emails affected you this way because you might be envious. Maybe you crave a connection, a love like my parents have, like our parents had together, maybe something more than the relationship you’ve idolized your whole life.”
“You’re a little more villain than you think.” “Yeah,” I sigh. “I have to agree with that.” “We all have one in us,” he imparts. “You’re completely different than I thought you would be,” I admit, “but in the best way.”
In short, Easton Crowne is the biggest threat to my well-being ever created.
Using my pain to better myself has always been my method to come out stronger.
No…there’s nothing to compare this feeling to, and that’s why it’s the meaning of life. Love is purpose, belonging, and the very definition of living.
Surrounded by thousands, he holds me captive as I become helplessly attuned to the fact I’m utterly, hopelessly, and desperately fucking in love with Elliot Easton Crowne.
He planned this. Every second of this, for me. Standing in a living dream, while floating on the love I feel for him, our eyes lock, our affection clear during the most beautiful minutes of my life.
Whoever I was before this moment exists no more. Inside, I’m aware I’ll never be her again, the woman who doesn’t know what this kind of love feels like. Whatever I presumed my loves expectations to be feel insignificant for the moment, because his declaration makes me feel immortal.
“You know what my father calls my mother?” “Grenade.” “Yeah. That’s his pet name for her. Because that’s the way he saw her when they met. A ball of destruction.”
“Don’t ever hide from me. We’re as close as two people could ever be.”
“We have to be and stay united on this, okay? We can’t apologize for loving each other, or we’ll give others the power to condemn us.”
“And this version showed up in her place, searching for something I also wanted for myself.” “What?” “The type of love that defies rationality, that trumps all reasoning, that’s uncontrollable.”
Thirty years ago, Nate rivaled my father for the affection of the woman he held most dear. History is repeating itself now, and he’s doing it again, but this time he’s winning.
“Don’t blame yourself for another man’s poor fucking choices.”
Easton blows out a harsh breath. “I was fool enough to believe that time mattered. But love is like music for so many in the fact that it’s—” “Timeless,” I finish for him.
